


By Ourselves Betrayed

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Community: contrelamontre, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Napoelonic Wars, Soldiers, Vignette, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-23
Updated: 2003-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chosen Men spend an evening with their Major.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Ourselves Betrayed

**Author's Note:**

> Movie-based, although my version of Patrick Harper seems to have wandered over from the books. Written for [](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/) Point of View Challenge. The story must be from the POV of a character who is not in love with either part of the primary pairing. Time limit: 60 minutes.

"Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: Married in haste, we may repent at leisure." ~From "The Old Bachelor," by William Congreve

***

Now that he has Miss Jane, it's rare for Mr. Sharpe to spend evenings with us in camp. He doesn't have free moments to while away with his Chosen Men, to take tea and drink with his Battalion, to swap stories into the long hours of the night. Miss Jane doesn't like her husband to be far from her side, and these days it's rare for the Battalion to march without a tearful scene on her part. At first I thought it was simply the tears of a newly married woman, but now I'm not so sure. They've been married more than six months now; plenty of time for her to adjust to life as a camp follower, and plenty of time for her to notice and respond to the looks she draws from the gentlemen officers. Plenty of time for her to settle into life as an officer's wife.

But as the months go by, we see Mr. Sharpe less and less on our off hours, and I can see the toll it's taking on the men. Soon the South Essex will be just like the other Battalions, the soldiers loyal only to themselves, the officers bored and distant. We'll fight like the other Battalions too; mechanically, lost in a world of desperation and desertion without an anchor to ground us.

Miss Jane is as kind and loving as any wife, but Mr. Sharpe, as Harps has always said, is doomed by the lasses.

Mr. Sharpe was with us one night last week, though, and it was a welcome change. After dismissing the men for the day he joined us around the fire, took a bit of tea with us, and talked.

In truth, he and the Sarge talked. The rest of us drank.

The drink loosened Dan's tongue and soon enough his voice warbled out over the campsite, soft and strong, slurred by ale. The song (and the ale) blurred the words on the pages in front of me, and eventually I had to put my book down; I suppose I shouldn't be reading in poor light anyway. Perkins snored peacefully away, his head resting near Dan's elbow. That lad could never hold his drink.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, rubbed away the oil and sweat that was beading there and took off my specs. I'd have to content myself with watching Harps and Mr. Sharpe; it was either that, or stop drinking and go to bed.

The two of them sat side-by-side on a fallen log. The Sarge was happier than I had seen him in weeks, that much was obvious. He grinned like the drunken Irish fool he is, his teeth surprisingly white in the firelight as he leaned towards the Major, caught some snippet of words, and threw his head back in a great roar of laughter. He slapped the log with one palm, the other coming down, almost accidentally, on Mr. Sharpe's knee. The force of the blow must have vibrated through his leg, because the Major slopped tea from his tin cup, already halfway to his mouth, on the ground. Mr. Sharpe shoved the Ulsterman with his free hand, and Harps rocked sideways for a moment, but his hand never left the Major's knee.

Once the Sergeant's balance was restored, Mr. Sharpe threw an arm around his shoulder, pulled him in close and muttered something, soft and low. Harps' grin widened.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of white in the darkness. I turned my head, and sure enough, the white blur grew whiter until its edges separated from the night, and I realized I was staring at a whirl of skirts. I jerked my head upwards, past a darker patch of colour, and found myself staring at Miss Jane herself, her face framed by a white, heart-shaped bonnet. She stopped a few feet from us and squinted at the group.

I thought about saying hello to the lady, but where drink had loosened Dan's tongue, it had made my own heavy and slow. My mouth opened, but only a whisper slipped past my lips.

I watched as her eyes adjusted to the circle of light, and as she saw the Major, her face brightened. Her cheeks flushed with excitement, and she, too, opened her mouth to say something. A split second later she shut it as tight as a trap.

Mr. Sharpe and Harper had their heads so close together that their foreheads were almost touching, and the Major continued to mutter something under his breath.

A look crossed Jane's face that I have never seen on a lady; her eyes narrowed to slits, her forehead and nose wrinkled, and her mouth tightened. If I hadn't known better, I would have guessed she hated Harps in that moment. But I have gleaned enough from rubbing frayed elbows with silk and satin ones, from chatting with the cultivated classes about their children's schooling to know no well-bred lady would entertain such thoughts, let alone recognize and understand the bonds that formed between fighting men. What I saw and accepted in their touches, in their closeness she would never see, and by not seeing, she would not need to understand. But still she stared, her hands clutching at the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, grasping at the fabric, tangling in the fringe. She seemed frozen there, unable to step forward, unable to turn away.

Harper groaned, and I turned my head to see the Major standing, disentangling himself from the man's grasp. He laid a hand on the Sergeant's shoulder, patted him soundly, and rubbed his palm roughly across the fabric. He let his fingers linger there as he turned.

"Jane!" His hand fell away from the Sergeant. Surprised, he took a few steps towards her, Harper momentarily forgotten.

Her face softened immediately, the hard look replaced with one of gentleness and love. "Richard! I, I was lonely, and I..." her voice trailed off, and she ducked her head, contrite in her womanly weakness.

Mr. Sharpe closed the distance between himself and his wife, gathered her in his arms, kissed her soundly on the lips, and turned her toward her original path. He spared a backward glance for the rest of us, a grin on his face as he said, "Get some sleep, you buggers. I'll see you at eight, sober and spotless."

I watched the Sarge after they left. He sat, long into the night, holding the Major's abandoned tin cup loosely in his hands, staring into the fading fire. Eventually my tongue unglued itself from my mouth, wiggling and ready to form words again, but I stayed silent. A couple of hours before dawn Harps downed the last dregs of Mr. Sharpe's tea and stood up. He smiled at me, the only man still awake in the camp, and slung his ever-present rifle and seven-barrelled volley gun onto his shoulders. "Goodnight, Harris. Best I get back to the Missus." He slammed his shako on his head and left the campsite.

I waited for the fire to die out completely; with nothing left to watch, I resigned myself to sleep.

It's a real shame; now that Mr. Sharpe has Miss Jane, it's rare for Regimental Sergeant Major Harper to spend evenings with us in camp.


End file.
